


The Wild Boy

by Stripe_Conlon



Series: when we were younger and braver [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Crutchie-centric, Gen, How They Met, One-Shot, Pre-Canon, Young Jack, crutchie morris is a hero, everyone is okay though, i couldn't come up with a better name for this fic, i like making jack make promises he won't keep, jack is sad and bitter, smol beans, storytelling keeps these children sane, t just in case idk?, tw past abuse ment, you learns from crutchie you learns from the best, young crutchie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stripe_Conlon/pseuds/Stripe_Conlon
Summary: “The name’s Archie Morris. They calls me Crutchie, an’ I guess the reason for that's pretty clear. I ain't grassin’ to the cops or no-one, so take a breath.”The wild boy blinks, confused... “Uh, Jack. Kelly? Jack Kelly. I ain’t, ain't used it in a while.”Crutchie saves Jack in the street and takes him back to the Newsboy Lodging House.





	The Wild Boy

**Author's Note:**

> It kinda bothers me that we all just assume Jack was the one who found and brought back Crutchie, rather than it being the other way round. Hence this, because small Crutchie is just as tough as the rest of them (and definitely tougher than Jack c'mon the guy paints and likes sappy poetry and thinks he's a cowboy at 17 years of age)
> 
> :) Hope you like it!

Hobbling as best he can with a heavy bag of papers, the child puts on his biggest smile for the customers. “A pape, ma’am? Sir? Help a crippled orphan down on his luck?”

Orphan isn't accurate, but it may as well be. With his mother selling herself for gin money but not to feed her son, and his father doing time five states away, he's brought himself up (notwithstanding some help from Kloppman and the other newsies). He knows how unforgiving the streets are said to be, how they'll stab you in the back and rob you blind if you don't watch everyone close. He knows he makes his money through misguided pity, and it stings somewhat, but he doesn't complain. A boy has to eat.

Very soon, the boy’s pockets are indeed full enough for lunch, and he buys a hot coffee and somewhat gristly pastry for half the going price from the street vendor. It pays to be on the right side of everyone; Crutchie knows all the salespeople in Lower Manhattan.

He downs the coffee and sits on the pavement, massaging his leg with one hand and gripping the pie tightly with the other. Just in case, he lays his cap out beside him for people to toss money in if they're feeling particularly generous. It's some time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, which (apart from the icy drizzle that gets down the back of your neck) makes it one of the best times to be a crippled street urchin in 1894. Not that there's a ever a good time: his life is hard, painful and will probably be short, but he has joys and hopes and dreams like any other ten year old kid. Knowing nothing else, he doesn't feel his life is so bad. People give more in December, he's got some semblance of a family, and somewhere to sleep if he sells enough papes.

And his lot could always be worse. Take the wild-eyed boy near Marco’s stall, more a skeleton than anything else and blue with the cold, his thin shirt torn and back messy with bloody wounds and yellowing bruises. He's clutching his stomach and reaching up to beg, to take? Crutchie isn't sure, but he gives a yell anyhow. “HEY! MARCO!”

The man swivels, but he's too late: the boy scoops an armful of pastries and bread rolls and tries to run. He's crazy fast with desperation, but seems to be out of practise or unsure of his balance in his ill-fitting shoes, and he lurches, slipping on some ice and falling forward. The rolls and pies bounce into the slush and sludge, wasted.

“Ha! Gotcha, you nasty little thief!” Marco has him by the ankle, shaking him upside down as Crutchie makes his steady way to the gathering crowd of spectators (cap and money in hand, naturally). “Here, Crutchie; be a good lad and fetch the Refuge warden, huh? I want an example made ‘a this kid.”

Crutchie is aghast. At the mention of the warden, the boy, who had been thrashing and kicking with his free leg, has given up any attempts of escape. He just hangs there. He’s like the body of one of his mother's colleagues who'd been drowned in the river by some client in a temper, dredged up on the Brooklyn dock, her eyes lifeless and ringed in black shadows.

Aside from that, the word “Refuge” is enough to make any street child sick to his core, and here right in front of him is the reason why. Despite that, he beams at the angry vendor, his still-missing front tooth making his smile almost more angelic.

“I… he needs help, Mister Marco. He can't… I think the Refuge did all ‘a tha-that to him. Lemme take him back to the newsboys, huh? He can pay you back for the mess he made in a week!”

Marco is not an unfeeling man, and with his anger abating, he nods. There aren’t many who’ll say no to Crutchie when he turns that smile on. “You keep him on the straight and narrow, son, or mark my words I'll call the bulls. I'm not standin’ for theft.”

He sets the boy to rights, and leaves the two alone in the street. The wild boy follows obediently as Crutchie walks them into an alley, splits the small pie between them and observes how the boy eats so quickly he almost chokes on one of the small bones hidden inside. He tries to take him by the hand, but the other boy flinches back.

“Come on. You’se comin’ to the newsie lodge. You’ll like it! They’s-”

He is cut short with a shove that knocks him clean off his feet. He is not entirely surprised.

“I coulda eaten a whole bunch to meself if it weren't for you!” The wild boy pushes a foot into Crutchie’s chest. “I'm takin’ your money and I'se outta here! I don't wanna be no stinkin’ newsboy.” His voice is raspy, as if he doesn't use it much for talking. Crutchie squirms under the pressure of the foot, struggling to breathe. “Hurts, huh? You’se right, you pathetic little crip; this is what happens in the Refuge. They stomps down on you.”

“I...helped you… I didn't…”

“I don’ care. I'm takin’ your money an’ I'm leavin’ this rotten city.”

“Where… you’se goin’...?”

“... you really wanna know?” The boy's tone immediately softens, as does his whole face. He’s no veteran bully. Crutchie realises he's on the right track, and nods eagerly. “Nobody's ever asked afore. If you has ta know, uh, it's a place called Santa Fe. It's dis little town out west where it never snows, never rains. The sun is brighter there, an’ it shines through the trees so soft like. It's a sight to see, I'm tellin’ you. People's friendly there, an’ there's two square meals a day. All to yourself. Bread, an’ honey, an’ a whole roasted chicken, an’-”

Crutchie had taken advantage of the boy’s reverie to wriggle out from under the foot and to start pushing himself up from the floor. Once he's up, he shoves the boy with all the power he can muster, wielding his crutch. The wild boy is stunned, and when he tries to get up, the adrenaline has worn away and he doesn't have the strength to stand with the wind knocked out of him. _No wonder he's in this state,_ Crutchie thinks. _No wonder someone hurt him bad. He's not suspicious enough. Then again, they never suspects me._

“Be careful who ya calls a pathetic little crip, dunderhead.”

“Yeah, you’se right,” the boy's eyes are filling with tears despite himself - Crutchie realises a little guiltily that the fall may have worsened that torn up back - and he keeps knocking them away with his curled hands. “You gonna call that street seller and get the Spider on my tail, an’ it's all over.”

“Why’d they mess you up like that?”

“I didn't even do nothin’, this time. It was me last day. Snyder said it was " _a partin’ gift"_.”

"An' what will happen to you? If you goes back there?”

“I dunno. I'se a hopeless case. I gots a severe problem wid authority, they says; I dunno what that means, but I has it. Not even the Refuge can fix me proper. I s’pose… I might be in solitary for a good long while." He put on a face that might have been brave or cocky if it didn't seem so fake. "But I has Santa Fe there, so I won't be alone.”

“You said it was out west! How can it be in solitary and out west at the same time? You a liar?”

“It's a real place, but… It's a picture in my head too, kid. I can go there whenever I want.” He swallows. “Though it ain't easy when they's beatin’ me, like. An' I'se a liar, but I ain't lied to you.”

Crutchie considers this for a moment, spits on his hand and offers it once more. “The name’s Archie Morris. They calls me Crutchie, an’ I guess the reason for that's pretty clear. I ain't grassin’ to the cops or no-one, so take a breath.”

The wild boy blinks, confused, but copies the other's example, and they shake. “Uh, Jack. Kelly? Jack Kelly. I ain’t, ain't used it in a while.”

“Nice to meet ya.”

Jack hands back Crutchie's cap and, slightly reluctantly, the few pennies he'd had in it. “I'm… I’m sorry I knocked you down. The fact that I'se, I’se scared, that ain't no excuse. I-”

“Ah, shuddup. I'se forgotten it already. That handshake? Means we're friends. You’se my friend now, an’ if I stayed mad every time we hurt each other, well, we'd be nowhere at all. Can you stand?” Jack nods in assent, pushing himself up carefully from the floor, and the two begin walking out of the alley and down the next street, Crutchie occasionally calling out headlines and palming off papers. “People act stupid when they's afeared. It's all right.”

The word is almost foreign. He tastes it on the tip of his tongue. “Friends. Eh.”

“If I gets to trust you, we'll become brothers, an' hat's even better than friends. But that'll take me time: I don’t completely trust nobody yet.”

Jack nods. This boy has no reason to trust him or anyone else. Jack himself doesn't feel trustworthy after what he's done. He tried to tell himself that attacking the child - a child - was all out of necessity, but here's the withered up kid grinning at him, and he's surviving by just... being nice.

“Why's you bein’ so good ta me?”

“It don't cost nothin’, an’ I likes it when people is kind ta me.” Crutchie shrugs. “I might as well try to be kind first. It makes me feel… warm inside? I know that sounds dumb. But if I can make someone else happy, I’se happy. Sam - he’s our leader - he says I’se got too much… _emperthy_ or somethin’. It makes me weak, he says, _"an' God knows you'se weak enough already Archie wiv that leg 'a yours"_ -”

“He says that? It ain't true. Nah, I think it makes you strong, to be kind to people like that. I bet it makes ‘em all love you, you’se so sweet, leg an' all. The kind ones were the strongest ones, in the, the… I wish...” Jack trails off, feeling his eyes begin to burn as Crutchie's smile grows even bigger. “Can I have a go? At that paper sellin’?”

“Sure, take one.”

Jack scans the paper quickly, and Crutchie is impressed, and not to mention, somewhat envious. Despite his best efforts, it usually takes him a good few minutes each morning to decipher the headline and get the words right. It certainly adds to the air of mystery around the wild boy. However, he then wonders if Jack can read at all with the first line out of his mouth being:  
“GIANT SNAKE SPOTTED ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE! Read about it here! Afternoon, sir, that'll be a, a penny. Thank you, sir.”

Crutchie grabs him by the shoulders and gazes up in awe; Jack winces, but does not move away. “That was amazin’, Jack! You did that wiv a scowl on yer face! I never sold a pape wivout a grin.”

“I ain't got a smile an’ a leg like you. Wid a mug like this, I needs ta spin the truth. Anyway, I heard ‘bout a snake that travelled over from the jungle on one of them ships in the harbour. It was a time ago, before we was both born. He had slithered inside one of the crates of oranges an’ lay in wait for some poor sod to snack on. Picture his surprise when he wakes up in stinkin’ New York City!”

“Is that true?” Crutchie is enraptured. He loves a good story, and he knew from the moment he started daydreaming about Santa Fe that Jack would have some great ones.

“You bet. My pa, he worked on the docks a while. He was there that day when the snake slithered out; it reared its head, its poisoned teeth were bared like a rabid, slaverin’ dog’s. Six foot long; five inches thick. An’ this huge dock worker, he was screamin’ like a baby girl. But my pa, he smacked that snake with a plank ‘a wood and that was that. Squashed.” As he tells the story, Jack acts out the scene - the gaping face of the burly screamer; the smash that laid the snake out cold. For the first time, he seems to be having fun. "So no wonder I was scowlin'! Snake on the Bridge, that's serious news!"

“You’se one of the best storytellers I’se heard. You'd make a crackin’ newsie.”

And then Jack does smile, and it's like years of weight lift from his shoulders and face. He changes entirely from a grimy, feral creature to a person anyone would want to be friends with. It makes him look so unbelievably hopeful. The boy is what Specs would call “an open book” - his soul shines through in his eyes. Somehow, after everything, he's managed to stay vulnerable.

“You really think so?”

“You’se gonna be the top seller in no time, an’ that’s a fact.”

Jack ponders this a second, aware he let his guard fall. “Hey, I know! Let's split the pile of papers. Whoever can sell out first is the winner!”

Crutchie eyes him suspiciously. "Uhhh..."

“Whatsamatter? Don't ya _completely trust_ me yet?”

“You laughin’ at me, Jack Kelly?” The smaller boy is solemn, serious.

Jack's sheepish. “Maybe a little. You’se tough for a small kid. How old is you? Seven?”

“Ten! But if anyone asks I says seven. Younger sells more papes.”

“Huh,” Jack nods, as if retaining that information for later. “Well, I'se twelve. But in the Refuge I says fourteen. Older makes the other boys leave ya alone.”

"You are not havin' half me papes. Try an' sell ten, then we'll talk."

"Fine, a'right." Jack heaves a breath. "'Scuse me, ma'am..."

***

Before they know it, their bag is empty, pockets are fuller and they're at the lodging house. Jack stops outside.

“You comin’ in, then?”

“I… I'm not used to bein’ under a roof, ‘cept in there. I'se- I’se worried I'll be closed in-”

“You ain't got nowhere else to go. An’ there's dinner. Mutton soup and cabbage and new potatoes. Well, if Albert’s in there before us there'll be no mutton left, but the cabbage is a given!”

Jack’s eyes look like they're about to pop out his skull in a mix of hunger and disbelief. “You’se kiddin’ me. You'se tellin' stories like I do.”

“I ain't! Come on in and see! It's too cold to be standin’ around out here.”

The older boy is still hesitant, but the warm light at the windows and the distant sounds of raucous, childish voices from within draw him closer.

“Come _on_! I wanna show them all my new friend, the greatest storyteller in Lower Manhattan. We can give you a nickname too! You’se gonna fit in great.”

“An’, I can go?” Crutchie’s face falls momentarily, but Jack doesn’t notice. He’s not a big brother yet, after all. “I means, if it ain’t for me? I can still go to Santa Fe?”

“You’re free. It ain’t like jail. Best thing ‘bout bein’ a newsie; you can come and go where you wishes. But-”  
Jack doesn't like buts. He looks like he's about to turn away until Crutchie puts his hand on Jack’s hollow chest, and looks up again hopefully. “I likes you. An’ I wants you to stay here wiv us.”

“I likes you too, kid. I really does.”

The two stand there for a moment, Crutchie's hand on Jack's thawing heart.

“An’ I promise I'll give it a try.”


End file.
